


dangerzone

by orphan_account



Series: ask and ye shall receive [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, Car Sex, Dirty Talk, Double Penetration, M/M, Object Insertion, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Pre series, Sex Toys, Size Kink, Slutty!Cas, older!Castiel, porn without purpose, twink! dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 21:04:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is an utter cockslut, but he's Dean's utter cockslut and that's what matters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dangerzone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [assbuttintheimpala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/assbuttintheimpala/gifts).



This is Dean Winchester: lightning trapped in a bottle. The musk of summer evening. Flickerflash of lightning over desert, stars swirled in constellations like milk. 

This is Dean Winchester: mouthy, obnoxious brat. Thinks he's everything. Knows better than the song of prophecy. 

This is Dean Winchester: making shitty poets out of angels.

 

\--

 

This is Castiel: a man out of time. 

 

\--

 

This is Castiel: an angel in the body of a man, storm trapped beneath skin, held tight by the bonds of muscle, wings tamped down. Sent down from Heaven to watch the boy they call Dean, the boy who will become the Righteous Man, the boy who has destiny stitched under golden skin and the devil in his smile. 

This is Castiel: wearing the skin of thirty five year old accountant Jimmy Novak. Hungry. Hungry for the world, for life, for purpose, for orders -- Heaven is shockingly, scarily quiet -- but, most of all, for Dean. 

 

\--

 

When Castiel first met John Winchester, the man shot him with two barrels worth of rock salt. Spray of crystal like surf. Like it would help. Castiel, initially, had admired a man like that: a soldier, facing challenge with weaponry, with a mouth like a rabbit snare, trapping all beneath, words kept tucked away in the soft lining of his throat. 

But then he meets Dean and Sammy, and he learns a little more about human children, and he learns what it is to be left for days-days-days -- forty dollars for the room, twenty for food, doesn't last long when 'back in two days' becomes 'back in two and a half weeks' and Dean steals a burger for Sam, a quarter for sweets, curls soft and frail fingers into pockets to filch a wallet, a note, anything. 

It's when Castiel materialises, finds a punter with a mossy growth of beard, nudging Dean to his knees -- because what use is virtue when your baby brother is starving? -- that he first understands hate, the dark claws of violence sinking in and in and in. 

He tears the punter to shreds with a thought. 

From then on, whenever John goes off Dean prays for Castiel. 

And Castiel always comes. 

 

\--

 

Dean is beautiful, and he knows it. 

He's long leonine strides, hair falling into his eyes with pained artlessness, fingers hooked into pockets. Shoulders just the right amount of slumped. 

There's a poem about something slouching towards Bethlehem. Dean makes him think of that, something with a slack pose and easy smile, something deadly and hungering to be born. 

 

\--

 

Castiel meets Dean when the boy is twelve. 

Two years later, and Dean kisses him for the first time. 

Castiel does not understand the following: kissing, sex, desire, handjobs --

Age of consent. 

He hungers for Dean, thinks of his brother Samyaza -- who fell for the sake of lust -- weighs the bad things against the good, and kisses him back. 

 

\--

 

"'m not gay," says Dean. He's fifteen. He stinks of sex. The whole room stinks of sex. Sam's been sent off with a fistful of notes to the local library, and he won't be back until late. John has got into the habit of using Castiel as a heavenly babysitter.

Neither Castiel or the boys object to this. 

"Hm," Castiel says. He doesn't understand the concept of sexuality, but it seems to matter to his young charge. He pushes his fingers through Dean's hair, wriggles his hips back against Dean's slack cock. Wonders, absently, how long it will be before Dean can fuck him again. 

(He understands the Grigori more and more with each passing day.)

"It's just...you."

"Yes. And I do not understand sex. But I love you."

"Love you too," mumbles Dean. Pink flags of colour stand stark on his pale cheeks. Castiel sucks on his earlobe, savouring the salt of his skin. 

 

\--

 

 _Cas, please meet me in the carpark_.

Dean prays; Castiel comes. 

It's the way of the world.

 

\--

 

The heavy blue hour of dawn, sun not yet risen, the Impala a long sleek shape in the carpark. The only shape. Glistening, slick as oil. 

Dean's leaning against it, a smile hanging sharp off his face. The old familiar hunger roils through Castiel's veins, and in a moment he tips Dean's chin back and devours him. 

The boy shoves his tongue into Castiel's mouth, greedy as ever, his slight hands winding under Castiel's trenchcoat, under his shirt, seeking warm skin. "I'm gonna fuck you," he promises against Castiel's mouth. Cas sighs happily, and tightens his grip on Dean's hair. 

"Please do."

"Bend over the car," says Dean, low and dark and adolescence shudders a little in his voice, but he's older than his years, older than anything, he's got the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders. 

Castiel obliges. Palms on the Impala's hood, hips canted back, the sharp clear line of his back, ass thrust out like a banquet. 

Dean's fingers nudge at the corner of Castiel's mouth. Castiel understands what is expected of him: he opens up, sucks on Dean's fingers, getting them sloppy and wet with saliva. Draws them to the back of his throat. Eyes fluttering closed, daydreaming about the weight of Dean's cock on his tongue.

The fingers are dragged away. Castiel whines, but the whine sharpens, turns to a gasp as Dean pulls Castiel's trousers down, pushes two fingers home. 

"God, you're such a slut for me," he whispers, almost in awe. "You're all mine. You just...open up."

And it's true. Castiel is an angel, and as such he can make...adjustments, we can say, to his vessel. He can exorcise demons with a touch; it is the simplest thing in the world to conjure a little lube in the inside of his ass to ease Dean's way. 

"Yes. Take it," Dean growls, pushing a third finger inside, curling them back and forth, nudging Castiel's prostate -- he gasps, his cock smearing precum over the hood of the car -- and he scissors them back and forth. "I'm gonna make you take more. Want to take more?"

"Yes," Castiel whispers. "Please, yes please."

"Good," says Dean. "Your ass is hungry for it anyway."

He withdrew his fingers. 

Castiel's throat tightens. "Dean -- "

Dean smooths a hand over his back. "Here, give me a moment. I just wanna watch. Your asshole's trying to close up. Look."

Castiel can't see, but he feels the flutter of muscle as his hole shrinks back after the shove of Dean's fingers. 

"Right," says Dean, decisively. "Let's go for it."

 

\--

 

It's a torch. A maglite, a proper one, heavy metal and only a little smaller than Dean's fist. Dean gives it a wave under Castiel's nose. "Wanna lube it up?"

"I've already taken care of it," says Castiel, a note of smugness in his voice, and Dean makes a wonderful, surprised sound as the maglite is suddenly dripping with lube. 

"Let's get down to business," he says, and hums a snatch of some Disney song under his breath. 

 

\--

 

Dean returns his fingers. Three, then four, sliding in and out, and Castiel is stretched open and whining shamelessly. "Fuck me," he says. "Please, just fuck me."

"Hey, hey old man," coos Dean. He sounds annoyingly unruffled for a boy four fingers deep in an angels ass. "Patience."

Castiel props himself on his elbows, slants a fire-bright look over his shoulder. "Fuck me, or I shall smite you."

"You wouldn't," Dean says, a laugh splitting his mouth open, but he obliges: pressing the cold torch against Castiel's asshole. The tight ring of muscle is slack, but it still takes a good bit of pressure to get it in -- when it does slip in it's with an obscene squelching sound, sliding in, the pink flesh stretching open and obliging around slick black metal. It sinks in. Dean breathes soft and reverent: "You take it so well. Just...oh, I wish you could see. It's wonderful. You're ass is just taking it, taking it in, it's sinking in -- like -- oh you fucking whore. My whore. You like that don't you? It's not enough for you, is it? You just want more, more and more, more than I can give. Want to be filled up."

It's true. It's all true. Castiel's so hard he could cry, squirming his hips back and forth, Dean sinking the torch in until it reaches the flared top -- and then he starts to pull it out, slow and deliberate. "Does it hurt?"

"Not at all."

"Because you're so loose. Fucked open. Slut, just...fuck."

And there's a rustle of denim as Dean wrangles his jeans down, and then -- impossibly -- Castiel feels the press of Dean's cock to the side of the torch. 

"I wanna fuck you with both," says Dean. "Can you, uh. Can you make it so it doesn't hurt you? Or me?"

"Of course," Castiel says. Dean's so sweet and soft when he's like this, all earnest childlike faith. 

And then Dean's pressing in. He utters a high, surprised sound. "It feels...fuck, it feels amazing. It shouldn't feel this good -- you're so good at this, so greedy for my cock aren't you? slut. Fuckin' whore." His voice is getting tighter, and as he draws back Castiel feels him lose it. Semen crawls down Cas's ass, dribbles around the base of the torch. 

"Fuck," Dean mutters. 

But he's fifteen. There's a skill that most human boys have at fifteen, and not many get to use it, but Dean's one of the lucky ones. He pulls the torch out, slow and deliberate, and shoves it back in. Castiel gasps, and comes in an arc -- on the Impala, shit-shit-shit -- and cants his hips back, greedy for more sensation, desperate to be filled, to be fucked, to be crammed full of whatever Dean gives him. 

Dean's grip is slip-sliding on the torch. His palms are sweating, there's come everywhere, and his left hand is frantically working on his hardening cock. "Oh Cas, oh --" and he pulls the torch out (with another obscene slurp) and comes hard, directing the spurts into Cas's gaping-open ass. It's red and slick inside, and Dean moans. "You're so fucking beautiful. Only I get to see you like this, only me, and it's mine, all mine." He shoves two fingers into Castiel's slow-closing hole, tugging at the puffy red rim, dragging the gluey mess of his own come to and fro. 

"Whore," Dean says, breathless. "Slut, just...letting me fuck you in public. Letting me do all that to you. And loving every moment of it. Anyone could have seen."

Castiel sniggers. "Yes. But you forgot one thing."

"What?" Dean says, still hypnotised by the flex of Castiel's asshole, the dribble of his come on the red, wet skin. 

"I'm an angel. I froze time. No one could have seen."

Dean bursts out laughing. "That was half the point!"

"I know. But do you really want your father seeing us like this?"

"Not really."

Castiel makes to stand, but Dean plants a hand between his shoulderblades. Castiel could have broken free without any trouble at all, but he doesn't. He doesn't want to.

"Let's have another go," Dean says, his voice a low husk, and Castiel thanks God for the nonexistant refractory periods of teenage boys and angels of the lord. 

 


End file.
